


Exchange of Experience

by Tennyo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, M/M, Post-Canon, Role Reversal, They swap sides, but I made it tasteful, there's a fade-to-black scene where you know they had sex.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 16:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo
Summary: After everything is said and done, there is one more hurdle Crowley and Aziraphale must overcome. Themselves.What happens when a little divine intervention has them waking up as an angel and a demon, but swapped?





	Exchange of Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a Twitter role reversal:  
<https://twitter.com/azziraphale/status/1163773597149728769>  
  
Today fits prompts for two different simultaneous challenges:   
Ineffable Husbands Week  
AND  
Gomens fic Week.

It’s after the cancelled apocalypse, after they’ve saved each other by choosing their faces wisely, and after a leisurely lunch at the Ritz. They're back at the bookshop, and after Aziraphale spent a good amount of time examining to make sure everything was still the same and tutting over the new additions, they settle down with a couple bottles of a lovely Beaujolais that Aziraphale had forgotten about.

Conversation softens into something quiet, comfortable. Crowley has barely slept in days and is still exhausted from willing himself and the Bentley to make it to Tadfield, stopping time, and stepping into hellfire in heaven. The very last thing they’re talking about as he dozes off on the sofa is what it felt like in each other’s forms, and he mumbles something about what if they actually switched places. Aziraphale wraps an afghan around his shoulders, sets their wine glasses aside and leans against Crowley, before eventually sleep steals upon him as well, like a thief.

Crowley wakes to morning light on his face. He blinks, his eyesight… odd. The colors are off, and things are less sharp. After stumbling to the loo, he washes his hands in the small sink and looks into the mirror.

A high-pitched scream wakes Aziraphale, who falls off the sofa before stumbling after Crowley to the water closet. He’s greeted by the sight of Crowley, with blond hair and brown human-like eyes! 

Crowley screams again, staring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, whose once pale blond hair is now a dark salt-and-pepper mess of curls, and pale grey eyes with horizontal pupils like a goat!

“Crowley! What has happened to your hair!” exclaims Aziraphale.

“My hair?! What about yours? You’ve gone dark!”

“I what?” Aziraphale pushes Crowley out of the way to take a look at himself. “What devilment is this?”

Their clothes are still the same, yet _they _are different. Crowley FEELS different. He looks down at his hands, then back at the mirror, edging around Aziraphale who is preening at his grey-streaked curls and tilting his head to get a better look at his eyes. 

The ever-present sooty, scale-like sheen to Crowley’s skin is now missing. He looks fresh-faced, other than some stubble at his chin. With brown eyes, he looks completely _human._

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes?” Those strange eyes glance at him.

“Wings.” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s arms and starts tugging him out of the small room.

“What?”

“Not in here of course,” Crowley navigates them both to the back room, where the afghan is still bunched up, half hanging on the floor. In the center of the room, they stare at each other. Crowley releases his wings. Aziraphale follows suit.

They both gasp.

Aziraphale’s wings are the same color as his hair, dark with streaks of silver-grey. Crowley’s are white. Glowing, perfect white.

“What does it mean?” Crowley whispers. 

“You’re an angel, Crowley!” Aziraphale gushes.

Crowley’s heart seizes. This means… “And you’re…"

“A demon, it appears,” Aziraphale says with nonchalance as he looks himself over.

“Oh no.” Pacing, Crowley frets. “What have we done? How did this happen? What are we going to _do?”_

Aziraphale steers him to the sofa and places him firmly on his seat before joining him. “My dear, calm down. Whatever has happened, we will deal with it and the consequences.” He takes Crowley’s hands in his, “I, for one, would like to try something with you that I’ve been thinking about for some time.”

Staring at their joined hands, Crowley says, “Huh?”

Without warning, Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s. 

“Mmnf?” 

What starts out as uncoordinated mashing of mouths turns soft, sweet. Crowley clings to Aziraphale’s arms, while Aziraphale takes his time caressing his face, his hair, his back. He’s being pushed down onto the sofa, and Aziraphale straddles his lap, pulling at Crowley’s shirt. 

Tightening his hands on Aziraphale’s arms and pushing him away enough to breathe, Crowley says, “Wait.” 

“But why?” breathes Aziraphale, stroking his fingers along Crowley’s abdomen. “Haven’t you wanted this? I haven’t allowed myself to think I could even have this for nearly a century.”

Before Crowley can think of a reply, Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and they’re now in a bedroom. On a soft bed that Crowley has never seen before.

“Wha—?” It has been a very confusing morning so far, and he’s beginning to think this is just some very elaborate dream concocted by his strained subconscious.

“What, did you not think I had my own bedroom?” Aziraphale glances around, removing his waistcoat before starting on the buttons of his shirt. “Of course, it hasn’t been used much, but I think we can make up for it now.”

Buttons half undone, Aziraphale leans over Crowley and gives him the kind of kiss that sends his senses reeling. Oh, can he do things with his tongue!

* * *

Much, much later, Crowley lies face down and trembling among crumpled, twisted sheets. Aziraphale, looking satisfied and smug, miracles clothing onto himself. Then he promptly frowns down at his wardrobe. 

“Hmm.” He needs a change of style. 

Crowley, now unconscious after their activities, isn’t going anywhere for a while, and Aziraphale goes downstairs, though the shop, and steps out to the street, feeling peckish. And in need of a tailor. He locks the door with a hand wave and whistles on his way down the street.

One decadent meal and a trip down Saville Row later, Aziraphale walks back into the bookshop with armfuls of bags, wearing a new, three-piece suit. It’s a deep blue, with silver pinstripes, and a vibrant floral tie. His hair has been styled, his thick curls more pronounced, one streaked curl playfully bouncing forward.

Sitting on the sofa is Crowley, having finally made it downstairs, dressed in his t-shirt and trousers, nursing a cup of tea. “I’d ask where you’ve been, but well...” He waves at the bags Aziraphale piles onto his desk and chair. 

“Yes, the outdated look just didn’t suit the new me.” Aziraphale flumps down on the sofa. “Any more tea for me?”

After a pot of tea has been consumed, Crowley has his wits more about him. “What do you think happened?” he asks.

“Does it matter?” Aziraphale nibbles one of the last biscuits. “It’s like you said, not so bad once you get used to it.”

“But _why _has it happened?” Crowley sets down his empty teacup with a clatter. “Is God punishing us? Did something go wrong with the… the face swap?”

“Crowley.”

“What?”

“You’re panicking.”

“You should be the one panicking!”

“What?”

Crowley sighs. “I don't deserve… whatever this is. I feel different. Don’t you feel different, Aziraphale?"

“Well, yes, I’ve never felt so _free _in my entire life, to be honest.”

“But isn’t something missing?”

“Like what?” Aziraphale tilts his head, sending that errant curl bouncing.

Crowley holds his hand to Aziraphale’s chest. “Can’t you feel it? The empty spot where God’s love used to be? For the first time in six thousand years, I _do_ feel it, and it’s overwhelming. To be without it after feeling that for so long, aren’t you out of sorts?

Aziraphale pulls the hand from his chest, holding it in both of his own. “Well, I did say I do feel different, but I don’t particularly miss God’s… presence.” He keeps talking when Crowley looks at him in shock. “So what? Her love never did anything for me. And now I’m free of Heaven’s rules and regulations. And Hell! They won’t try to touch us either! Don’t you see? This is our chance to really start over!”

Stunned by that outburst, Crowley sits back, blinking. “You’re not the Aziraphale I know.”

“Yes, I’m better!”

“I have to go.” Crowley makes to stand, but Aziraphale places a hand on his thigh. 

“Wait, why? I was hoping we could—” 

“No, I don’t want… I’m going home.”

“Crowley!”

He’s out the door, jacket in hand as fast as his surprisingly not wobbly legs will take him, and slides into the Bentley. Even the car sounds different. He carefully eases it into traffic, possibly taking the longest ever to get back to his flat, since he’s not so keen at speeding like usual. 

Stepping inside, Crowley sees everything with new eyes. Eyes that aren’t a predator’s, not as sensitive to light; he recognizes the gloomy atmosphere, the shaking, terrified plants. What is he to do now?

To start, he avoids Aziraphale. The ang— the demon only seems to want one thing from him now, and it’s a very… intimate form of companionship that Crowley isn’t ready to handle, with things like they are now. Aziraphale gets himself a new, pretentious sports car, and acts like a human going through a mid-life crisis. And Crowley would know, he practically invented them. 

He remembers what it was like to tempt such men into excess, but now it hurts his heart to see Azirapahle try to fill that void that he knows exists in his chest. Only love can fill it. Crowley had once hoped Aziraphale could take up that space in his, but now… 

Crowley also undergoes a change in personal appearance. He changes his wardrobe to chinos, soft sweaters, and colorful button-ups, and picks up part-time work in a plant nursery. It helps keep him busy in the winter months he would normally spend indoors trying to keep his cold-intolerant old self warm. His new angelic form never seems to get cold. 

Once, Crowley thought being an angel again would make him happy. But even with God’s love swirling within him, he’s lonely. He misses Aziraphale, the way he would smile and wiggle in his seat when something pleased him. The angel’s soft eyes that radiated affection. Now those strange, horizontal-pupilled eyes only seem to radiate lust. He doesn’t want to be wanted for just one thing, so he keeps his distance.

Come spring, Crowley is re-potting a fiddle-leaf fig when Aziraphale comes into the shop with his shiny shoes and impeccable, pretentious suit, wearing enormous, brown-tinted gradient sunglasses. He’s grown a beard. Did Crowley used to always give off such an air of self-importance? Upon seeing Crowley, Aziraphale steps carefully around branches, leaves, and flowers. 

“Hello, Crowley. You look well.” Aziraphale keeps his hands tucked behind his back, and rocks on his feet.

“Yeah. You’re… you seem to be as well as could be expected.”

A shadow crosses Aziraphale’s face. “Yes, well. When will you be taking a break?”

“Why?” Crowley squints at him suspiciously.

“I was thinking of taking you to dinner.”

“I hardly eat, you know that, ang— Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Humor me, Crowley. It’s been _ages _since we’ve gotten together. And, well, I miss you.

Crowley softens. He was always soft for Aziraphale, and after spending months at a distance, he’s weak. “Fine, I have a break in twenty minutes.”

Aziraphale’s smile lights his face, and for a moment, Crowley is reminded of who he used to be. “Right, I’ll just wait outside in the Aston Martin.” 

Once Crowley finishes his potting and washes his hands meticulously, he exits the nursery to see Aziraphale’s car at the curb and slides into the plush interior. It still smells new. Aziraphale drives to the Ritz, speedy yet smooth. Maybe the old Crowley could take lessons from this Aziraphale. 

After they’re seated, Aziraphale attempts small-talk but Crowley feels this overwhelming sense of _wrongness._ It should be him driving Aziraphale to the Ritz, in his perfectly preserved Bentley. When the waiter comes, Aziraphale orders for both of them. 

The meal is awkward, their conversations stilted. How did they get this distant from each other in just a few months? They used to go _years _without speaking, and act like no time had passed at all. When they’re finished, Aziraphale leads Crowley out by the elbow. 

“Dear boy, would you mind overmuch, if you came to the shop for a _digestif?”_

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” Crowley is wary of where this could lead.

“Please? I’m… trying. But, it’s difficult, making the words come out. Will you allow me this chance to, well, repair our relationship?” Aziraphale squeezes his elbow, and there’s a familiar wrinkle upon his brow.

Crowley would argue, but he knows what Aziraphale means. They’re not the same people they were before, and everything is different between them, more difficult. 

They drive back to the bookshop. Stepping inside, Crowley had expected some radical changes, but it’s surprisingly much the same as he remembered it. Except perhaps less dusty and more organized. Aziraphale leads him to the back room and the familiar sofa, where Crowley sits on the very edge of the cushion, tense. 

Aziraphale pours them each a glass of port, makes his way through the first glass quickly, breathes, and pours another. Halfway through his second, he sets it on the table. 

“Crowley”

“Yes?” Crowley fiddles with the stem of his glass.

“I’ve missed you.”

“That’s a surprise.” It’s not, really. But spend six thousand years being a snarky bastard, and it’s hard to break the habit. 

“You were right, there is an emptiness inside of me, and I cannot fill it.” Aziraphale pouts and fiddles with the buttons on his pretentious new waistcoat.

Sighing, Crowley sets his own glass aside. “You know why. When you Fall…”

“Except I never really Fell.”

That sets Crowley blinking in surprise. “What?”

“We’ve merely… Exchanged natures, so to speak. Yes, I am missing... _love_, but not God’s.”

Crowley’s throat goes dry. “What are you trying to say?”

“I miss you terribly, Crowley. Six thousand years we’ve known each other. And ever since you were handed the antichrist over eleven years ago, we have always been in close proximity to one another. But now, now we hide from each other.”

Crowley takes a large gulp of his drink. “I don’t think things can ever go back to how they used to be Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale leans forward in his seat. “I just want_ you,_ Crowley.”

“I don’t think I can _be that _for you.”

“Oh, my dear, you misunderstand. If you never want _sex _again, I will banish all my efforts if it makes you happy.”

Something in Crowley lurches. This is the Aziraphale he remembers. Well, not exactly, but he’s still the same… being, underneath the differences. And so is Crowley, really. 

They finish their wine and Aziraphale offers for Crowley to stay the night. “Separate ends of the bed of course, in full nightclothes, if you wish. But I want to be close to you, if you will allow me.”

Crowley, weak, allows it and reaches for his hand.

When they wake in the morning, they’ve changed back to their old selves, but not entirely. Looking at his angel in the morning light, Crowley still feels and understands that soft feeling of love, but it’s not God’s love that he feels. It’s Aziraphale’s.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not good at endings; I could have made this fluffier, but then it would have never ended.  



End file.
